


Jukebox

by standbygo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Funny, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Music, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 16:34:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15777894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: After the music halls of Sherlock's mind palace get damaged by accident, John learns that Sherlock never forgets a song. Even the ones he'd rather forget. But the random singalong brings some unexpected benefits.





	Jukebox

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cuzicouldyay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuzicouldyay/gifts).



> I got this prompt from cuzicouldyay: Due to a real or imaginary threat, Sherlock floods his mind palace with data from its music halls such that it may be preserved. With music no longer compartmentalised, he has a new habit of humming without realising. While John is, for the most part, amused, turns out it's also just a bit not good to be witnessed singing quietly to oneself at crime scenes. I'll admit, I imagine Sherlock never convinced himself to delete music, no matter how terrible a song may have been, so I'm kind of imagining truly unfortunate pop music popping its head up, ahaha.

John never thought he’d be glad to see Mycroft’s silhouette, but there he was, outlined by the weak morning sunlight coming down the hospital corridor.

“Mycroft, thank God,” John said.

“Apologies, John,” Mycroft said, and John could hear a ribbon of worry and stress under the smooth cadence of his voice. “I was in a difficult point in negotiations, and found it difficult to get away. What is his status?”

“On the whole, not a lot of physical damage, at worst a cracked rib. There’s some bruising on his face and knuckles, so he fought hard.”

“And you were where?” Mycroft said, his tone icy.

“Right next to him, but I’m afraid I was a little preoccupied with two of my very own thugs,” John responded with heat. “I also found it ‘difficult to get away’.”

Mycroft’s face cleared. “Again, apologies, John,” he said, and John nodded tersely in acceptance. “He’s still unconscious?”

“Yes. Mycroft, look – I asked them to not use opioids unless they had to. Sherlock has always said he’d prefer to avoid them in case…”

“… In case,” Mycroft said. “But?”

“But I’m concerned he’s in pain. About an hour ago he started groaning. The nurses are worried. I’m worried. There could be some internal damage that we can’t detect at this point. There could even be damage to his-”

John found himself unable to finish the sentence; the horror of brain damage to Sherlock, of all people, was too horrible to contemplate. Mycroft nodded with what passed for sympathy in the Holmes family. “Can we see him?”

John nodded, and led him down the corridor.

After all these years, John was always amazed to see the manner in which Mycroft swept into a room, and how people scattered in his wake. Whereas John had had to argue with the nurses to be let into Sherlock’s room, Mycroft was not questioned at all, and they made their way to Sherlock’s bedside.

Sherlock was indeed bruised, his face obscured by both the oxygen mask and the purpling tone of his skin. His eyes were shut, but his fingers and legs moved restlessly across the sheets, and his head moved slowly from side to side, as though he was shaking his head ‘no’. Through the mask, Sherlock’s deep voice resonated in regular bursts.

John’s heart knotted with anxiety all over again. The doctor in him wanted to cure, instantly, to help Sherlock rise up immediately and be freed from whatever pain was troubling him.

Mycroft’s brows wrinkled, but more with puzzlement than worry. “Could we remove the mask, just for a moment?” he said.

One of the nurses standing by the bedside glanced at John, and he nodded. She carefully pulled the mask away from Sherlock’s face, allowing Sherlock’s voice to echo more clearly in the room.

Mycroft listened for a moment more, then straightened, and smiled at John. “Thank you,” he said to the nurse, and she replaced the mask. “I don’t think you need concern yourself, John. In fact, I suspect that Sherlock will regain consciousness on his own shortly.”

“What? He’s in _pain_ , Mycroft, we should-”

“He’s not in pain, at least not insurmountable pain,” Mycroft said, his smile widening in relief. “He’s not groaning. He’s _singing_. It’s not random vocalizations, it’s a pentatonic scale.”

**

Sure enough, about an hour later, Sherlock rushed back into consciousness. Oddly, his only word upon waking was, “ _Licht_!” Mycroft’s only reaction was to say, “Ah. Haydn.”

Sherlock’s disorientation upon waking lasted only thirty seconds or so, after which he swiftly deduced the orderly’s affair with the head nurse, then settled into insulting Mycroft’s new suit. John’s heart then settled back into his chest where it belonged, and he happily set about trying to convince Sherlock that he could not possibly leave the hospital immediately after being beaten unconscious by the McEwan gang.

His doctors agreed, and Sherlock suffered another night in hospital, under protest. The hospital staff clearly suffered as well, as there was no argument from them when Sherlock called John at six the next morning to help him get discharged. John recognized the wide-eyed, frantic look on the nurses’ faces, and signed the document releasing Sherlock into his care.

They were in a cab home by six-thirty. The day was clear and a little warm with early spring, and Sherlock rolled down the window of the cab. The passing scenery got his attention while John reread the instructions given him by the doctors.

After a while he became aware of Sherlock humming; he wasn’t sure he had ever heard Sherlock hum before. He grinned in amusement, until Sherlock snapped, “Would you turn that radio off please?”

“Not on, mate,” the cabbie said.

Sherlock turned to John, an affronted look on his face. John shrugged. “He’s right, no radio.”

“But I can hear…”

Now John was worried. “What do you hear?”

“I – Vivaldi’s _Four Seasons – Spring_.”

John shook his head. “No, I can’t hear anything. Are you seeing any spots? Any pain, headache? Does the music rise and fade? Maybe we should go back to the hospital.”

“No, I’m fine, John,” Sherlock said. He looked perturbed, but not in pain. “I’ll take care of it when we get home.”

“But-”

“Nothing to worry about, John.”

His tone brooked no argument, and John surrendered the field for the moment, while resolving to watch him carefully.

When they got home, Sherlock immediately made a beeline for the sofa, and promptly took up his prone ‘thinking’ position. He remained there for several hours, ignoring all offers of tea or food. After a time, he got up and insisted on Chinese takeaway, and ate voraciously. He answered all of John’s questions easily, and even consented to a cognitive test, passing with flying colours. John was reassured.

**

John came home from surgery the next day to find Sherlock playing his violin. That was not in and of itself unusual, but what was odd was that when he finished the piece, Sherlock put down his violin and bow, and made a series of quick, sharp movements with his hands, finishing with a pushing motion to his left. Then he picked up his violin again and began another tune.

John had been with Sherlock long enough to shrug off most of his strange behavior. This wasn’t anything to worry about medically, so John simply made a cup of tea and enjoyed the impromptu concert in his sitting room.

Sherlock repeated the gesture after each piece, and John decided against applauding for the time being. After about an hour, Sherlock put down the violin with a sigh, and turned to see John.

“John! When did you get home?”

“About an hour ago. I didn’t want to stop you or interrupt. Are you thinking, then? Trying to work out the McEwan gang still?”

“To be honest, no. Well, a bit, but I had to do some repairs first.”

John’s brows rose in confusion. “Repairs?”

Sherlock sat in his chair opposite John, taking a drink of what was no doubt cold tea. “Yes. It would appear that the blow to my head earlier this week caused some damage to my mind palace. Mainly to the music halls.”

“The… music halls.”

“I have to have someplace to store music, after all, John. You know how important it is to my thinking process.”

“I suppose that makes sense.”

“But it would appear that the music areas are in disarray. Music of all kinds is flooding my brain, disrupting all other streams of thought. I’ve been sorting it out, putting it back in place.”

The light dawned on John. “That’s why you thought there was a radio on in the cab the other day.”

“Exactly. What appears to help is to actually hear the tune. So I’ve been playing through my repertoire and sorting it out.”

“The…” John made a pale imitation of Sherlock’s gestures. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Yes. I’ve made my way through Bach and Beethoven, and most of Handel, but my fingers are cramping now.”

“Darn that transport.”

“Well, yes.”

“Would it not be easier to just listen to the music on a CD?” John waved at the stereo.

“I will for the music I can’t play – the symphonic works, organ, choral, and so forth. Right now I’m focusing on sorting the violin solos.”

“This is going to take a while.”

“Indeed.”

**

It did take a while, but crime waits for no man to organize his mind palace. The McEwen gang struck again, this time hitting one of the largest banks in the city, in broad daylight.

Sherlock swooped around the bank’s vault, peering through his magnifying glass. John was busy interviewing the tellers so he didn’t know anything was wrong until Lestrade came and pulled gently at his sleeve.

“Ahm… is Sherlock all right?”

“Why, is he hurt?”

“No, it’s just that…” Lestrade scratched the back of his neck. “Well, he’s not acting quite himself. I think.”

John looked over at Sherlock, who was examining the handle on the vault from a distance of about two centimeters. “Looks same as usual to me.”

“Just – go and… get nearer.”

John shrugged and ambled over to Sherlock. It wasn’t like Lestrade to be taken aback by Sherlock’s behaviour; like John, he had become inured to his eccentricities. As he approached, he caught sight of Donovan, who was working on the other side of the vault – her eyes were wide as saucers. He frowned at her, and then he heard it:

“… _finally facing my Waterloo_ …”

It took all of John’s self-control to prevent himself from doing a double take at Sherlock, but there he was, singing Abba to himself at a crime scene.

“Um, Sherlock,” he began.

Sherlock straightened and grinned at John. “They’ve made their final mistake, John,” he said. “I know where their hideout is.”

**

On the bright side, Sherlock was correct about the location of the hideout. On the not-so-bright side, the gang was in it when John and Sherlock arrived, and the Yarders were not as close behind as they had thought they would be.

The result was an invigorating chase through the alleys of London to break up the gang, culminating in a lovely roundhouse fight with John and Sherlock taking on five of them at once. In the end, all five went down. John helpfully knelt on the back of the second last conscious one while Sherlock zip-tied the last.

Sherlock was singing, and not under his breath this time either.

“… _and if you complain once more, you'll meet an army of me_ …”

Finally the Met arrived and took control of the scene, rounding up the last of the gang. Sherlock and John were cleared and went off in search of the nearest curry.

“So…” John said. “Music halls still under construction?”

“Ah. Well. Yes.”

“But Björk? Seriously, Sherlock?”

Sherlock ducked his head a bit. “I did a lot of clubbing while I was… during my early twenties.”

John nudged him, silently letting him know he was only taking the mickey. “Fair enough, it’s a good song. I kind of prefer Big Time Sensuality, though.”

“I’m sorry?” Sherlock stared at him, a flush staining his cheeks.

John rewound the sentence in his mind, and felt his own blush rising up. “The – song. It was another song of hers – Björk.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said, and then, loudly, “Ah, here it is. Their chicken tikka masala is excellent.”

**

Sherlock spent hours at a time lying on the sofa with his headphones on, gesturing quickly and elegantly. It was nearly as entertaining to watch as telly; John had to admit to himself that Sherlock had very nice hands, with long and delicate fingers waving in the air. He was feeling a bit sorry for Sherlock too. When he thought of the number of songs he had heard through his lifetime, and of the strict method of organization that Sherlock used, he realized what a mammoth project this was for Sherlock. So he tried not to tease him when he caught Sherlock humming “Uptown Funk” over his morning tea, or overheard him singing “Right Here Right Now” in the shower.

But sometimes he couldn’t help himself.

One warm afternoon they were returning from doing the shopping, and Sherlock kept stopping and doing what John had now dubbed his ‘music hall’ gesture. This happened several times as they walked the short distance from Tesco, and Sherlock’s gestures became increasingly frantic and stroppy.

“What in God’s name, Sherlock?” he snapped at last.

“There’s a song,” Sherlock said, his tone nearly desperate, “a song, I keep trying to file it and it _won’t go away_.”

“What song?”

Sherlock’s jaw worked in frustration with a flush of embarrassment. “Elvis Presley. A Little Less Conversation. My father used to sing it to Mycroft and me when we were arguing about chores.”

John grinned. “I knew I liked your dad.”

“ _Help_ me, John.”

John took pity on him. “Ah, you’ve got an earworm.”

Sherlock blinked. “What a… disgusting and yet wholly appropriate term.”

“I can’t take credit for creating it. They’re a right bugger, I sympathize.”

“But what do I _do_?”

John put his grocery bags down; this could take a while and his hands were starting to hurt. “I actually have heard a couple cures, they seem to work.”

“Tell. Me.”

“Um. Well, you put your fingers in your ears-”

“You must be joking.”

“I’m just repeating what I’ve heard. You put your fingers in your ears and sing ‘You’re Simply the Best’.” Sherlock stared at him blankly. “Tina Turner? The American woman with the legs?”

“I think I must have filed it, I don’t know that one.”

“If you’ve filed it, don’t go looking for it now, you’ve been doing so well. Any song without a strong melody of its own should do. Like a nursery rhyme.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, and John could see the internal struggle: John often teases me/but he looks like he’s telling the truth/it’s so ridiculous it might work. Slowly, still looking wary, Sherlock raised his hands and tucked his long fingers into his ears.  He sighed and closed his eyes.

“ _Round and round the garden goes the teddy bear_ …”

John blushed a little in sympathy with Sherlock as passers-by stared at the tall, handsome man in the expensive coat standing on the street, plugging his ears and singing a children’s song. Fortunately Sherlock was singing quietly, and not using his full baritone singing voice that John now knew he possessed.

When he finished the song, Sherlock took his hands from his ears, slowly, carefully, cautiously. He looked like he was performing the mental equivalent of building a house of playing cards. Then he made his quick gesture with a sense of finality.

“All right now?” John said.

Sherlock paused a moment, listening to his own brain. “Yessss,” he said uncertainly, then “Yes! Oh, thank God, John. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” John grinned.

Sherlock let out a huge sigh of relief, and actually reached out a hand, offering to take one of the carrier bags.

At that moment, a car sped by, its windows wide open and the radio blaring:

_"What does the fox say? Ring-ding-ding-ding-dingeringeding…”_

Sherlock let out an inarticulate bellow of rage, and charged after the car as though he might yank the radio out with his bare hands if he caught it. John was left laughing his silly arse off on the corner.

**

“I require your assistance.”

John looked up. He had just sat down with a cup of tea and a nice biscuit from Mrs. Hudson, it had been a truly irritating day at the surgery, and he had been looking forward to a quiet evening. But there stood Sherlock, his head held high and his hands clasped behind his back. John was always quietly amused at Sherlock on the rare occasions he asked for help – his posture always suggested a schoolboy in front of the principal. How could he refuse that?

“What do you need?”

Sherlock sat in his chair opposite John. “I think I’m almost finished with the renovations of the music halls; nearly everything has been sorted. Classical is complete. With the help of a contemporary radio station, I’ve dealt with more recent music, as horrific as that was. But I believe there are a few more songs floating around: random ones, ones that I would have heard in passing. I need you to help me isolate them.”

“All right,” John said slowly. “But how?”

“Just – sing a few,” Sherlock said.

“What?!”

“Not the whole thing,” Sherlock said hastily. “Just a line or two, enough for me to isolate it, categorize and file it.”

“I – I’m not a singer, Sherlock, that’s-”

“The quality of your voice is of no matter for this purpose. You are much more aware of contemporary music than I am. It would really help, John.”

John could feel himself wavering, and knew that Sherlock could see that. “I don’t know a lot of the really recent stuff, it all sounds like auto-tuned crap to me.”

“It’s more selections from the 90s and 00s that I need. Just – do your best, John.”

John sighed. In the end, he could never say no to Sherlock asking for help. “All right.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock quirked his head. “Do you require alcohol for this exercise?”

“I think it might help, yeah.”

A few moments later, there was a glass with a healthy splash of whisky by his side, and Sherlock was sitting expectantly across from him.

“I don’t know where to start,” John said.

“Just-” Sherlock twirled his hand in the air. “Whatever comes into your head. I think I’ve got everything from my childhood and early adulthood, so anything after that…”

“Oh, no problem,” John muttered. He took a slug of whisky, then cleared his throat. Cleared it again.

“Mrs. Hudson is out,” Sherlock said. “She won’t hear you.”

“Right,” John said. “All right… ehm.” He cleared his throat once again, then reminded himself he was a soldier, and a veteran, and colleague of Sherlock Holmes, and he shouldn’t be afraid of singing, for God’s sake. He squared his jaw and sang the first thing that came into his head. “ _I get knocked down, but I get up again_ …”

“Right, thank you,” Sherlock said. He made a quick gesture, eyes closed, then looked back up at John expectantly.

Feeling more confident, John sang, “ _Where the streets have no name_ …”

“Got it.”

“ _Ninety nine red balloons_ …”

Sherlock gesticulated - twice. “I had to file both versions, the German and the English,” he explained.

“Ah, okay. Um… _They tried to make me go to rehab, I said_ …” John’s voice hesitated and broke, suddenly embarrassed.

“It’s all right, John,” Sherlock said quietly, and his hands moved again. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about your voice, John, it’s quite nice. Tenor.”

“Thank you,” he said, grateful for Sherlock’s deflection, that he hadn’t been offended. He thought for a moment, and sang, “ _It’s sad, so sad, it’s a sad sad situation_ …”

“ _Sorry seems to be the hardest word_ ,” Sherlock sang back softly. They stared at each other for a moment, then Sherlock closed his eyes and gestured.

“You’ve a nice voice too, Sherlock.”

“Thank you.”

“ _Do you remember the first time, I can’t remember a worse time…_ ”

“ _But you know we’ve changed so much since then_ ,” Sherlock sang.  He moved again, and when his eyes opened, John got a shock of near electricity.

Something was different, something was happening.

The moment stood suspended for a moment, then John sang the first thing that came into his head, “ _Pa- pa-poker face, pa-pa-poker face_.”

“Dear God,” Sherlock groaned. His hands moved sharply. “Next.”

“Right then, uh…” The mood hadn’t entirely broken, and John found himself flummoxed, unable to think of a single song.

“There’s one…” Sherlock said, then cleared his throat. “There’s one that…” He looked at John with that intense look that John knew so well, then sang, “ _Because maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me_ …”

“ _And after all, you're my wonderwall_ ,” John sang back, singing through his dry throat. He took another sip of whisky to wet it. “Um,” he said, not sure what to do with the electricity he was sensing in the room.

“Anything you like,” Sherlock said.

“Give me a mo.”

“I can ask Mrs. Hudson.”

“No – just - I - _If I fell in love with you, would you promise to be true, and help me_ …”

Silence fell like a heavy blanket in the room. After a long moment, Sherlock raised his hands, and, still staring at John, made his gesture.

“Sherlock,” John said.

“Not to worry, John.”

“I-”

“Access to subconscious thought is a fascinating theory, though it is fraught with false psychology and-”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John said. His heart was pounding but he was a soldier, and soldiers were brave, weren’t they? They threw themselves into risky and dangerous situations, right? He licked his lips.

“ _I might not be the right one, it might not be the right time, but there’s something about us I’ve got to do._ ”

Sherlock swallowed, made his gesture. “John, I-”

“ _I'll be your dream, I'll be your wish, I'll be your fantasy, I'll be your hope, I'll be your love, be everything that you need, I'll love you more with every breath, truly, madly, deeply do_.”

John was singing too fast, his pitch was all over the place, but he sang. Sherlock’s face was flushing pink and his breath was shallow as he made his gesture. John waited, waited, afraid he had pushed things too far, risked too much. Then Sherlock said, his voice rough and low, “Go on.”

John looked up at the ceiling, and thought of everything that had happened since he had met Sherlock. Then he looked at Sherlock in the eyes, and sang, “ _All I needed was the love you gave, all I needed for another day-_ ”

“ _And all I ever knew, only you_ ,” Sherlock sang back.

Sherlock took a deep breath, then raised his hands again. Before he knew it, John was in front of him, holding his thin wrists in a firm grasp. “Don’t.”

“John-”

“Don’t delete that, don’t file it away. Please.”

Sherlock swallowed hard, gazing up at John. “I haven’t filed the last five songs,” he said simply.

Time stopped. Then John pulled on Sherlock’s wrist, and Sherlock’s arm went around John’s back, and each pulled the other closer and met in the middle. The kiss started with desperation, then moved to intensely sensual, almost sloppy, then turned sweet and aching with the words that they hadn’t been able to say for years.

After the kiss wound down, John tilted his forehead against Sherlock’s, and laughed gently. “Well,” he said.

Sherlock’s answering deep chuckle vibrated through John’s whole body. “Yes. Well said, John.”

“Subconscious thought, then?”

Sherlock peppered John’s face and neck with small, soft kisses, while John hummed with pleasure. “Allows one to finally say things they were afraid to say.” He leaned back, looking at John with a raw vulnerability he had never seen. “At least for me. I was. Afraid.”

John pulled him into a hug, burying his nose in Sherlock’s hair. “Yes. I was too.”

“Afraid of what could be lost.”

“Yes. Seems a bit silly now.”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock’s arms tightened around John. “Now that I have it, I am even more afraid of losing it.”

“We won’t,” John said, holding Sherlock equally tightly. “We won’t. Now that we have this. We can do this, Sherlock.”

“But how? I’ve never done this. I mean relationships. Love. How?”

John laughed, feeling lighter and a little giddy. He pulled Sherlock to his feet, pulled him down the corridor to the bedroom. “It’s easy,” he said.

Sherlock’s brows knotted, but he followed. “What do you mean?”

John grinned, and sang, “ _All you need is love, ba ba da da da_ …”

“Oh God,” Sherlock groaned, as he closed the bedroom door behind them.

 

_End_

**Author's Note:**

> Songs:  
> The Creation, Josef Haydn  
> Spring, The Four Seasons, Antoni Vivaldi  
> Waterloo, Abba  
> Army of Me, Bjork  
> Uptown Funk, Bruno Mars  
> Right Here, Right Now, Jesus Jones  
> Little Less Conversation, Elvis Presley  
> What Does the Fox Say, Ylvis  
> Tubthumping, Chumbawumba  
> Where the Streets have No Name, U2  
> 99 Red Balloons, Nena  
> Rehab, Amy Winehouse  
> Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word, Elton John  
> Do You Remember the First Time, Pulp  
> Poker Face, Lady Gaga  
> Wonderwall, Oasis  
> If I Fell, The Beatles  
> Something About Us, Daft Punk  
> Truly, Madly, Deeply, Savage Garden  
> Only You, Yazoo  
> All You Need is Love, The Beatles


End file.
